


Beautiful Tension

by writinghomunculus



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Coming of Age, Friendship, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Kyouhaba Zine 2018, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Tension, being unable to fall alseep because you're thinking of someone, that feeling of being attracted to someone enigmatic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-20 23:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14904384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writinghomunculus/pseuds/writinghomunculus
Summary: This feeling inside him is building, building, built and like moss on a statue, it can’t be cleaned away even when months of mornings come.Even long after, all Shigeru sees in his dreams are golden eyes peering into his soul.Yahaba can't seem to forget about this one boy. Coming together fic.





	Beautiful Tension

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2018 [kyouhaba zine](https://kyouhabazine.tumblr.com/); thank you to the mods for putting this together it's been a long yet extremely rewarding journey ♡
> 
> special thanks to [charris](http://onimask.tumblr.com/), for being there during the writing process, catching my slips, and ultimately being an amazingly supportive friend.
> 
> this is for you.

Before Kyoutani Kentarou, Yahaba Shigeru has never known calm.

Shigeru’s sprawls out on his side, legs folded comfortably on the couch, sweater bunched up around his abdomen in a way that leaves his stomach exposed. Kentarou’s lap is comfortably warm underneath him, the hand carding through his hair in long, languid strokes relaxing the muscles of his neck. His head feels heavy, soothing in a way, and Kentarou’s touch is reassurance because he knows Kentarou is there to catch him if he falls.

It almost marvels him — how far they’ve come; how different they first treated each other and treated themselves, years of trusts deepening like liquid — dripping, seeping, bleeding themselves into bones.

 

* * *

 

Fifteen is the age Shigeru remembers meeting him.

He’s the embodiment of brash, teeth, knuckles and muscles, and after watching him play once at club practice after school, Shigeru never wants to see him again. The boy jumps with disregard, speed making him swiftly smash into those playing on the court. Before the match ends, he crashes into Mitoe, a first-year middle blocker, and the landing leaves Mitoe’s ankle swelling a deep blue.

They’re both pulled out of the match, Irihata’s face stern and unmoving.

The boy leaves with a huff in his step, shoulders hunched in annoyance, bleached-blonde hair making him look brazen.

Irritation burns in Shigeru’s belly fiercely, a stark contrast to the icy cold he’s pressing against the fallen boy’s ankle.

Shigeru doesn’t see the boy or Mitoe at his next club session.

 

* * *

 

Thick black stripes bleeding into yellow, bag slung haphazardly on one shoulder, eyes dark as night — that’s the next time he sees him. He’s walking across the length of the school block across the one Shigeru’s at. That’s the only other encounter Shigeru has with him in the first semester of their first year.

“Hey, it’s him! Look at him,” the other students say. “That delinquent boy from class 1. Kyoutani.”

Shigeru stares a second too long and just like that, their eyes meet; light brown drowning in endless liquid gold.

 

* * *

 

They encounter each other in their first year, just once. 

It’s after school, after supplementary lessons that have Shigeru’s head swimming with math principles and trigonometry.  He and Watari take the bus home together on most days after practice, but it’s a Monday and there’s no after-school club activity today. He walks whenever he has to head home alone, the quiet and tranquillity of his neighbourhood a good soothe to the stress and tension he feels going through the cycle of life.

There’s a little corner shop by one of the turns of his district. He has to take a little detour to get there, but they sell snacks and sports magazines at a bit of a discount from other stores. The ambience and peacefulness of the little shop also fit very much to Shigeru’s liking, and he doesn’t mind sparing extra time. An ice cream would definitely hit the spot today.

The first thing Shigeru feels when the automatic doors slide open is a blast of cool air against his body, back straightening at the welcomed change in temperature. Walking past the minimal aisles that the shop could hold, Shigeru made his way straight ahead, to the small ice cream freezer sitting next to the cashier.

Shigeru remembers feeling gleefully guilty choosing his favourite ice cream, a double chocolate flavour with caramel between the chocolate coating and ice cream. Closing the freezer shut, he swirls on his heels, prepared to pay before bumping into someone, stepping on their leg and losing his balance. Before he knows it, he’s falling headfirst into the other person’s shoulder, and they plummet on to the cool hard floor of the shop.

“Shit,” he hears himself curse, trying to collect his bearings as he pushes himself up on to his arms.

Then, he sees that boy with the thick black stripes on the back of his head, Kyoutani Kentarou, underneath him, with large, dark, golden eyes staring straight at him and Shigeru feels his stomach dip into the abyss.

“Shit— Sorry—” He starts, scrambling to get up off the other boy, shooting up to his feet and neatening his attire. Scanning around with his eyes, there wasn’t anyone else in the shop other than the shopkeeper, luckily. He’s always been a bit self-conscious.

In the meantime, Kyoutani’s gotten up, brushing himself off as well. He looks annoyed, but Shigeru’s pretty sure his face is plastered in a permanent scowl. Still, he thinks, it wouldn’t hurt to apologise.

“Oh, sorry about, y’know, falling into you, by the way,” he puts on his most apologetic but friendly smile for effect.

Kyoutani doesn’t even look at him, which pisses Shigeru off. That is, until he says, “‘S that your chocolate?”

Shigeru’s head whips to where Kyoutani’s staring at, finding a splotch of what looks like dark brown mud inches away from where they met the floor. Nose twitching upward in disgust, Shigeru’s shoulders slump in disappointment.

“Ugh, it’s supposed to be ice cream,” and _god,_ it was  _supposed_ to be a chance for him to indulge in his guilty pleasure treat but now it’s just a pile on the floor.

Shigeru realises he must’ve said that out loud because Kyoutani lets out a cough that sounded like a laugh. A moment passes, Shigeru still looking longingly, before hearing a shuffle and he turns to see Kyoutani reaching into the ice cream freezer to pull out what the blemish on the floor was meant to look like.

“I’ll buy you one. No need to look like your dog died.”

“Huh?” Shigeru scoffs, like he’s in disbelief. Kyoutani doesn’t exactly have the best reputation, and Shigeru barely even knows him.

The thought of cool ice nursing Mitoe’s ankle against his fingers still stings.

“You gonna have to pay for the one on the floor anyway,” Kyoutani jeers, “Doing you a favour,” and Shigeru’s eyes roll.

It isn’t until Kyoutani pays that Shigeru notices strawberry pocky held in his hand. He leaves Shigeru’s ice cream at the counter as he takes the pocky and walks past. By the time Shigeru pays, apologising to the shopkeeper for making a mess, grabbing his ice cream and turning around, the doors are shut. Kyoutani has long left the store.

 

* * *

 

There are two versions of Kyoutani Shigeru sees when he closes his eyes.

One — brash, rough, rude, face permanently scowled. In his mind, this boy breaks more than just a teammate’s ankle. He disregards people, rules, choice of hairstyle and dark winged eyeliner a fight against convention. This version of Kyoutani breaks everything as Shigeru knows it. At the end of dreams, he always destroys Shigeru’s world.

Another version — this one’s mysterious, fleeting, _almost_ kind; lights a fire within him that Shigeru never knew he could hold. He’s golden skin, missing smiles and strawberry pocky on hot summer days. This kyoutani keeps Shigeru awake at night; a mixture of emotions, part want, part rage, an all-consuming confusion. In the middle of the night, Shigeru thinks ice-cold and feels burning hot. This feeling inside him is building, building, built and like moss on a statue, it can’t be cleaned away even when months of mornings come.

Even long after, all Shigeru sees in his dreams are golden eyes peering into his soul.

 

* * *

 

Shigeru sees him at the park once when they’re second-years and not quite friends yet. They now play on the same team, him the setter and Kentarou their most powerful spiker, the senpais having unofficially graduated with the passing of the interhigh. 

Kyoutani stands by the grass, volleyball bouncing up from his receives. Nearby, there are children who seem interested, eyes large and gawking at the coloured-haired teen and the ball that bounces from his arms in perfect arches. They hover around, but Shigeru can tell from their faces; ultimately too intimidated by the mad dog’s appearance to speak to him, to ask if they could play as well.

Shigeru’s never been intimidated though, infuriation his only fuel and maybe something else. Something deep, dark, and wanting.

He chalks it up to wanting to punch Kyoutani in the face. 

Stalking over, “I’ll set,” passes from his lips. Formalities have never done them well, after all.

Kyoutani looks up. There’s a pause, as though he considers it before speaking.

“Get lost.”

The scowl Shigeru wears twists into one of displeasure.

“Oh, come on. You need it,” and when Kentarou doesn’t stop at balancing the force of the ball, receive after receive, Shigeru sneers, “Are you seriously just going to keep receiving that ball and call it a day?”

The other boy to stops, singular large palm catching the ball, faced-up. He throws the ball at Shigeru, barely missing his face if not for Shigeru’s palms flashing up like shields.

“Then, set,” Kyoutani says, and that’s all it takes for Shigeru to be furious, face hot, cheeks burning.

This isn’t any different from their usual routine. Shigeru sets, watching as Kentarou runs, muscles tensing tautly before the jump, ball flying past them wildly when he spikes, speed inkling on crazy.

They rinse, wash, repeat. Two months of after-school club training won’t make up for the two years other setters and wing spikers in their year have over them, some perhaps even more. They aren’t in sync, definitely not always, sometimes not even close, and Shigeru wishes he had Oikawa’s attentive discern.

The truth is he doesn’t, and after one too many miscalculations, he tosses one without much thought, Kyoutani’s speed and erratic jumping tiring his mind. It doesn’t surprise him that Kentarou barely manages to reach it.

Surprise does come from Kyoutani’s sharp turn of head, eyes gleaming with indignation so potent that Shigeru wants to look away. Still, he stares Kentarou head-on, muscles clenching at the hostile tension. 

“What? If you’ve got something to say, say it,” Shigeru spits. “I’m not here to be stuffing your fucking attitude.”

The cleft that meets the side of his eye is not something he expects. The unexpected force leaves Shigeru toppling to the floor.

“Not here for your attitude either. You flunked the set on _purpose_ , shithead.”

Shigeru calms his breath. He breathes in. He releases. He wants to walk away, to keep the pretentious calm he’s always built around himself. Remember your calm, he tells himself, remember things deep-rooted into you.

But what he remembers — the interhigh, trainings before that match spent on the bench, Kyoutani stepping onto the court while the rest of them watch from the sides; that one practice in their first-year, Mitoe’s ankle, the cool of the ice pack against his fingers, the taste of chocolate ice cream on his tongue, the blaze of long nights lost and lost nights spent longing. He remembers eyes dripping metalic gold.

Tension clouds his judgement.

He jumps on Kyoutani, and as their bodies fall with the force of his weight through the air, Shigeru gets a swing on his nose. A fist flies up to the left of his face, and Shigeru is blinded for a moment before the sting settles in. Pushing back down, Shigeru grabs at Kyoutani’s right cheek, scratched-red by Shigeru’s nails as he forcefully holds him down, cheek stinging.

Shigeru pulls back his fist, launching for another hit but he’s stopped mid-swing as Kyoutani catches his fist, twisting Shigeru’s arm and using Shigeru’s forward moment to throw Shigeru off, down with side hitting the grass.

They lay there panting as the rage quells from their bodies. For a long time, there is no movement.

With that, the moment of tension dissipates. The blood in Shigeru’s head pulses, the thrum slowing to a steady rhythm, and for a moment, they’re quiet.

They don’t speak for minutes that melt into a long silence. Laying there, chest puffing, body exhausted, eye sore and swollen, Shigeru doesn’t want to admit what got the better of him _._

Eventually, Kyoutani sits up, hand coming up to his nose to wipe at it. It’s still silent between the two, even as the sun sets and lights aflame the the green of the park.  

“C’mon,” Kyoutani speaks , getting up to pick up the fallen volleyball. When he turns back around and sees Shigeru remains unmoved, he lets out a sigh.

“M’house isn’t too far from here. You need a plaster.”

Throbbing and barely able to open, Shigeru’s sure his eye needs more than just an adhesive. Still, the invitation mildly piques his interest, a stir in his stomach he chalks up to curiosity, hauling him up. Head spinning from Kyoutani’s left swing, he pushes the dizziness aside to rise. Kyoutani leads the way.

 

* * *

 

They’re third-years, when Kentarou asks to meet him at a park not quite midway between their houses. It’s definitely closer to Shigeru’s, but between all the fleeting volleyball trainings they’ve had over the weekends and Mondays too near to competition dates, it’s the spot Kentarou always asks to meet.

They’re third-years but not quite, with graduation thick and palpable as it looms tomorrow.

Kentarou is already there waiting, swaying slightly on the swing for 10-year-olds, too long legs dangling about. As Shigeru steps closer he can tell the spring sun reflect the sharpness of Kentarou’s bones. When Kentarou doesn’t look up even when his approach has come to a stop by the side of the swing, Shigeru sits down in the vacant one.

The cool air weighs down on him, shoulders hanging heavy. Months of unspoken words hang between them, invisible threads that once bound now unravel slowly. Shigeru can almost _feel_ them slipping, slipping, slip away; what he and Kentarou almost had between afternoons that stretched into evenings and touches stolen behind bedroom doors now inching further and further away from his reach.

He almost wishes Kentarou never to speak, to let them bask in the now, even if he feels like drowning.

Eventually, Kentarou breaks the weighted stillness of the world before them, a hand coming up to rest on Shigeru’s wrist. “Come to my home,” he says.

Shigeru says nothing. Instead, he paves the way.

 

* * *

 

Eyes closed as fingers trail up the back of his neck. His face too close to Kentarou’s, inches away from the other boy. The TV sounds distantly in the background, buzzing static slight but constant. It’s all that grounds Shigeru’s sense as he sees golden eyes flutter close. Warmth in proximity ignites heat flaring from the root of his neck. Kentarou’s kiss is nothing short of his personality — unforgiving, out to conquer, but he offers himself with a tentativeness Shigeru has only caught a glimpse of at the little corner-store and evenings spent stolen at Shigeru’s house before his parents come home. 

Shigeru loses himself, and he never wants to find his way home.

 

* * *

 

They’re fourteen when they clash for the first time, different teams on opposing sides of the net.

Shigeru plays with a focused calm, and despite the opponent team having one strong and unpredictable spiker, his team had tall blockers and tenacious players. They manage to pull ahead in the second set, a complete shutout, the winning point score. The score flips; 25-21.

A thread forms then. Over time, it twiddles, intertwines, twists, gets lost — but never does it come undone.

 

* * *

 

The TV hums lightly as he and Kentarou are sprawled out on the couch, Kentarou’s lap the perfect place for his head to lay resting. Kentarou traces patterns along his skin, Shigeru’s insides warming with relish. This, Shigeru thinks, is what he’s been craving — years of intimacy an untouchable castle built atop a mountain sculpted through time, endeavors and trust; the way Kentarou’s presences soothes the deep blaze within him, the ripple of droplets piercing still water coming to a serene stillness, tranquil when he’s held in this man’s arm.

For Yahaba Shigeru, Kyoutani Kentarou’s the one.

**Author's Note:**

> this story turned out longer than i expected, writing itself different from the initial story i dreamt for these boys. the focus shifted from my original idea of the ups and downs of their developing, and then established, relationship captured throughout the years to a simpler, time-focused fic, because i couldn't properly contain and develop the story & it's portrayal given the short one month to work on the fic.
> 
> i'm nonetheless happy how this turned out, and if possible i'll continue to build this universe with snapshots or longer form prose in other stories on ao3.
> 
> in the meantime, come cry with me on [tumblr](http://hanavmaki.tumblr.com). thank you for reading ♡


End file.
